


through the darkness

by todreaminscarlet



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, In England, Post-WWII, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 23:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5225552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todreaminscarlet/pseuds/todreaminscarlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, he walks through the dark of night, because he needs to do so. The fog and smoke cover him, and he walks to where it takes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the darkness

Sometimes he just walks the streets.

When he's back home after time away, he walks the foggy streets of London. He walks out the door and onto the darkened, misty streets, with skies full of smog and haze, and he walks. He stays close to the buildings, away from the street lamps, and makes his way with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His feet take him places that his family would be hesitant to go in the day, but he walks onward in darkness.

Sometimes his eyes close and he feels the city. He hears the car horns and the music from bars that filters onto the street. He hears the arguments of tired, war-weary Londoners, and he walks.

He always walks the same way.

He smells the sweetly bitter acidity of the city in the air; the failed sewage systems and the factory air. He sees the war-ravaged city; it is a site his eyes have seen too many times in the years he has lived. Buildings have fallen since he was a lad; people have left- been killed, or tired of living near death. He walks around a corner and has to duck his head to avoid laundry hung across an alley.

He knows that, technically, the walk he is taking is not safe. But he laughs to himself, quietly, either no longer scared of the danger, or no longer caring about the risks he takes. He does not know which one is the truth. But perhaps, he does not see the danger. He sees the brokenness and the darkness.

He does not know why he walks this way every time. Why he stays in the darkness of the street and refrains from standing in the pavement bathed in the light of the street lamps. Sometimes he thinks that the light is too bright on nights like this.

He walks through the mist and the fog and glances up at the sky when a light rain begins to fall. He turns up the collar of his coat and sets his hat tighter on his head and continues to walk.

Sometimes he finds that he gets tired of the light. Of attempting to smile and remain calm, and pretend that things are as they should be, and life, while not always as he desires it to be, is as his life should be. In those moments, when he wants something so different from what he knows he should want, he walks into the darkness. He does not walk to escape, but to remind himself. He knows that the walk circles home. He knows that come dawn, the sun shines through the clouds. But sometimes, he needs the dark.

He slinks through allies, sometimes reminding himself of the times when he slunk his way through enemy territories to ensure the safety of his family and his subjects. His brother viewed it as a burden; a casualty of a free life. But he viewed it as a pleasure, and derived too much enjoyment out of a dirty, messy responsibility. The games, the politics, the deception of words, twisting them to mean what he thought without saying it out loud…he missed the darkness.

But in the midst of the darkness that he all too willingly walks into, the walk reminds him of life. The sounds of the bars, the arguments in apartments above the street, the distant honking of horns: the sounds of the city….he walks on and through.

At a shop at a quiet corner, where the streetlamp flickers to an uneven rhythm, he always walks inside and buys a pack of cigarettes. He never takes them home; they are a vice only to him. He lights one and takes a long drag while leaning against a building under an awning while the rain continues to fall. The mist grows and claims more of the street and more of the sky. He leans and tilts his head back while pushing his hat forward on his forehead. The thought of what he must look like makes him smirk into the raised collar of his long coat. He fights a shiver at the increasing cold and takes an even longer drag. He looks up to the sky and blows a long, gray smoky tower into the sky, savoring the smell. He flicks off the ashes and walks down the road.

He sees people from time to time. A man, grey-haired, with a workers' jacket and patched trousers, walks past and does not acknowledge his presence. A women, with frazzled red hair and a light sweater, walks to a door in front of him and balances three baskets of laundry. As she tries to open the door, he hears the sound of children crying inside and sees the frustration and exhaustion on the woman's face. Without saying a word, he opens the door, places a basket inside, and nods to the woman's exhausted expressions of gratitude. He walks for what feels like hours and the darkness begins to feel overwhelming.

More lampposts have begun to flicker and the sounds have become quieter. He crouches by a building and lights another cigarette. He sees a bar down the misty street, lit by a sign and the sounds of Vera Lynn crooning through the partially opened door. He pushes himself upright and walks to the bar. Walking in, he is met by a dim, smoke-filled room with people sitting, quietly sitting and talking, nursing their late drinks, waiting for the rain to stop. He makes his way to a booth and takes off his hat and jacket.

He sits and watches. He notices the small things: the man at the opposite table's nervous tapping of the index finger; across from him, he sees the woman's tanned finger with a white sliver at the base; he notices the exhaustion on the faces of some and the drunk obliviousness of others. And he watches through clear, dark eyes, and he alternates sips from his drink and drags from the cigarette. And he watches as a brunette walks through the door and commands the attention of the patrons and waits silently as she scans the room until her eyes fall upon his face. She moves through the room, twisting around chairs and tables, with grace and elegance, but never seems out of place in the smoke and grime. She raises an eyebrow at the cigarette tilted from his long, white fingers before gesturing with two fingers towards the grey cylinder. He cracks a smirk and hands her a cigarette and lights it in her mouth and waits for her to relax and blow the smoke through her mouth. He waits for her to speak, and when she does not, he chooses to sit in silence. He watches her face and her body as she smokes and drinks and as she looks elsewhere.

And she waits, letting him look at her, knowing he sees all.

He sees the lines at the corners of her eyes and the make up she has desperately tried to cover them up with. He sees the lies in her eyes and on her fingers and sees that life is not so simple, and it is not so easy to forget. And because he can see into her darkness, he says nothing. They both walk into the darkness; they can walk though a darkened street and appear at home, and they have both chosen to walk back to the light. But it is not either's fault that light means different things for each of them. But that is not for tonight, he thinks. As she sits and leaves him alone, he does the same.

They do not plan to meet on nights like this, but they know when it is time. They do not see each other much elsewhere anymore, because, although they are the best at masks and identities, they have also learned when wearing one is futile. Here, they meet in the darkness, and in the dark, honesty reaches without words. They sit in silence, but the presence of the other is louder than a thousand words. And later, as people begin to make their way home through the mist and rain, they too walk to the door. He calls her a taxi and hands her a cigarette for the ride. Before she climbs inside, she hesitates, returns, and kisses him lightly on the cheek. He smiles, a small smile, and touches one hand's fingers gently to a cheek. She leaves and he turns toward the darkness.

But this time, as the night already approaches the dawn, the darkness does not seem so dark. He lights a final cigarette before tossing the pack away. He shoves one hand in a pocket and makes his way into the mist, and before long, he becomes part of it, and the darkness of his coat mixes quietly into the dark of the night, and the smoke of the cigarette joins the mist of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago, and realized that I hadn't brought it over from FF.net. It's a bit clunky at moments, but it's an early effort, and I'm proud of it for that reason.


End file.
